November 30

November 29

That little face though...

November 28

November 27

November 26: Thanksgiving

November 25: Pie Day

It's really hard to remain frustrated with a certain child when they come out of their bedroom with spontaneous facial hair. 

#mustacheforthewin

November 24

November 23

The things people throw away, I tell ya...

November 22

Eva said, "Woah, Momma, that's a lot of grass." #citykids

November 21: Happy Birthday Eva {and Clayton}!

At Women's Breakfast this morning, we assembled Survival Kits for the homeless. The donations poured in and we had so much fun putting the kits together. Thanks for all your hard work, everyone!

November 20

November 19

November 18

November 17

November 16

November 15

November 14

November 13

Dear Christians of America: Stand the Hell Up for the Oppressed

Source

The news channels are screaming.

Screaming louder then the plague of terror, turning ears.

Echoing hearts filled with fears.

They want to shut their doors now, the mouthpieces say.

Half the states in all now, more probably on the way.

It's too dangerous, these governors say, to let these war-ravaged people into our midst, when any one of them could be a terrorist. Neither the president nor any other official could guarantee our safety.

Source

They spout these statements in their clean, three-piece suits, standing in offices adorned in mahogany, after which they will probably enjoy a nice, expensive lunch with constituents.

And the American people, watching the news coverage from within the walls of their own homes, many being at least a thousand square feet in spaciousness, are beginning to rally alongside. Because the very essence of the American life exudes comfort. It expects safety. Preposterous is the notion of not having access to clean water, a complete wardrobe, and not only the food one needs to get through the day but such an availability and variety as to meet most wants, as well.

Source

It's easy, when life is so cushy, to sit on our couch, look at all the evil in the world and say, we don't want that here. It would mess up the nice little thing we have going on here.

“The people who are fleeing Syria are the most harmed by terrorism; they are the most vulnerable as a consequence of civil war and strife,” Mr. Obama said. He added: “We do not close our hearts to these victims of such violence and somehow start equating the issue of refugees with the issue of terrorism.” {Source}

Oh, but unfortunately we do, Mr. Obama. Twenty-six states and counting.

It's easy to see issues on the other side of the world, even on the other side of town, as not our issue. But by the very nature of our inaction, we are complicit in the evil simply because we did not make any effort to help.

Source

Evil runs rampant because we let it. The hearts of those around the world form the soil in which injustice thrives.

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” {Luke 4:18-19 NIV}

And in the face of glaring atrocities, we can easily forget the heart of our God. We can forget his mission and purpose, not just for Americans, but for everyone.

I, for one, will throw my lot in with the lost. With the prisoners, and with the oppressed. Because God never called us to be comfortable. He never called us to be safe. In fact, He called us to pick up our cross and follow Him. The cross is an instrument of torture, a method of execution. By very nature, it's a march unto death, whether that be physical, to the self, or otherwise.

And you know what? We're not actually all that safe NOW, in case you hadn't noticed...

~Gun violence is at an all-time high:

• 294 – The number of mass shootings (defined as when four or more people were injured or killed by a gun) in 2015.
• 45—The number of school shootings there have been in 2015.
• 7—The number of children and teens who die every day, on average, from gun violence (Five are murdered and two kill themselves).
• 20- The number of times higher the homicide rate by guns is for Americans, compared to those who live in other developed countries. {Source}

~Every 9 seconds in the US, a woman is assaulted or beaten.

~On average, nearly 20 people per minute are physically abused by an intimate partner in the United States. During one year, this equates to more than 10 million women and men.

~1 in 5 women and 1 in 71 men in the United States has been raped in their lifetime. {Source}

~The United States has one of the worst records among industrialized nations – losing on average between four and seven children every day to child abuse and neglect. {Source}

~The average age a teen enters the sex trade in the U.S. is 12 to 14-year-old. Many victims are runaway girls who were sexually abused as children. {Source}

We can't legislate or ban the evil and terror, my friends--it's already here.


But it's over there, too.

And now, out of fear, the same people who stood heartbroken over the body of a little boy washed ashore just a couple short months ago are now rallying together in protest to shut our doors to the rest of the little boys just like that one. And their mothers. And sisters and brothers. 

Is your God not big enough to keep you safe? Or is the real issue here that you just don't trust Him to do so?

“You’re familiar with the old written law, ‘Love your friend,’ and its unwritten companion, ‘Hate your enemy.’ I’m challenging that. I’m telling you to love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer, for then you are working out of your true selves, your God-created selves. This is what God does. He gives his best—the sun to warm and the rain to nourish—to everyone, regardless: the good and bad, the nice and nasty. If all you do is love the lovable, do you expect a bonus? Anybody can do that. If you simply say hello to those who greet you, do you expect a medal? Any run-of-the-mill sinner does that. 

“In a word, what I’m saying is, Grow up. You’re kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you.” {Matthew 5:43-48, MSG}

God calls us to love our enemies. Period. Not just when it's convenient. Not just when our safety is guaranteed by federal officials. There are no guarantees in this life, except for the fact that there will be trouble. But Jesus says to take heart, for He has overcome the world. {John 16:33}

“If you have a handful of people who don’t mind dying, they can kill a lot of people,” Mr. Obama said. “That’s one of the challenges of terrorism. It’s not their sophistication or the particular weaponry that they possess. But it is the ideology they carry with them and their willingness to die.” {Source}

Their ideology. Their willingness to die. Just a handful of them with devotion to their belief unto death.

A group of committed people have the power to change the world, to strike fear into the hearts of every person in every nation. They've shown us the breadth of their reach.

But I know Someone who can reach further. I know Someone who can reach deeper and wider then they ever could--even into the very heart of man--and He, well, He has already won.

So I'd like to propose something radical: What if we used their own tactics against them, just in reverse?

I seem to recall stories of a small band of disciples, about twelve in all, who were so committed to sharing and spreading the Good News, regardless of the cost, that you and I have unfettered access to that very same Gospel to this day.

So what if we actually started to live like the Christians we claim to be?

What if we picked up our cross, laid down our lives, and followed Him?? What if, by His Spirit and Grace, we prayed for our enemies? 

What if we loved these displaced people? Really loved them? In a way that cost us. A love that put the needs of others above our own, even when it hurts. Even when it's uncomfortable and it requires us to go without.

Source

What if we invited strangers into our land, these displaced refugees, and offered to provide for some of their basic needs? What if we sacrificed our comforts, our abundance, so that others may simply survive? So that they may have a small taste of the freedom and safety we have grown so accustomed to?

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ {Matthew 25:35-40}

Heaven help us.

May we not shut our doors to those in desperate, life-threatening need.

May we not ignore the cries of the oppressed, shut our ears to the sounds of their screams, close our eyes, refusing to look, as thousands perish in the sea. Oh, what the depths of those deep blue waters would tell if they could sing. The horrors and death they have seen.

May we not be so idly blinded by our comforts and ease that we do not see He's called us for such a time as these.


Because a small group of committed people can send a ripple effect out into the world.




**For some information on organizations helping Syrian refugees, click here.

November 12

November 11

November 10: Precious Slivers of Clarity

Eva was sitting in the laundry basket today, as I pulled the tangled mess of clothing out from under her, piece by piece.

Upon folding the very last one, socks and all, she says, "there's one more left to fold, momma!"

I look all around her, lift up her little legs, and finally say, "no, honey, I think we got them all."

She smiles really big, and glancing up at me, she replies, "no, momma, it's me! There's one piece left--me!"

And so, I picked her up and folded her giggling little self into a big hug before setting her down on the couch next to the other clothes.

Sometimes, these tiny people drive me absolutely crazy. To the brink of insanity, really. And other times, other precious slivers of clarity, they completely melt my heart.

They remind me with a smile and a hug that it's all worth it--all the chaos and the overwhelming days and the lonely socks--because we're in this thing together. And Lord willing, what will stick out above the rest when all is finally said and done, is a million tiny slivers of love and grace.

In the hands of a masterful Artist, a life of broken pieces can become a beautiful mosaic.

November 9

Okay, so I normally like the covers of MSL magazine, but this one is a little...scary. 

The kids asked if it was Elsa. 

No...Nope. Not Elsa. That would be her great grandmother, wearing...I'm not exactly sure.

Carry on.

November 7

November 6: God Is, and That Changes Everything

We find ourselves in a bit of a holiday vortex lately: still munching on Halloween candy
and preparing for Thanksgiving, all while listening to Christmas music...

Neither the truth nor God are dependent on our awareness of them.

Or on our belief in them.

God simply is. 

He hems us in behind and before like a masterful quilter.

Patches, binding, borders, and colorful brilliance.

We look at life, at circumstances, and we think, that's just the way it is.

No. It's just one of the Enemy's many lies.

God is. 

Circumstances are merely a slave.

And that changes everything.

It's an invitation to focus on the Who instead of the What.

To shift our gaze from outward to upward and inward.

An invitation to change our perspective, to see rightly.

To filter all of life through the Truth.

Because Jesus is the archetype of "what could be."

For nothing is impossible with God.

November 5: Seasons Come and Seasons Go

The leaves were blowing on the breeze today.

Crunching underfoot.

Scuttling across the cement.

The wind plucked them from their place in the sky.

Brown and shriveled now.

Their glory has passed. 

Sometimes it seems like this season will last.

The brilliance; the light.

The crispness in the air.

But eventually it, too, will cease to be there.

The things that plague you now won't always be.

What God's doing now isn't the only thing you'll see.

A new season is coming.

November 4

November 3

The Junkie Mom at the Park

{Originally written over the summer}

The sweltering day had tapered off into a shadowy, refreshing breeze. I love when the scale of the year tips winter-ward and the summer nights begin to cool off, teasing of autumn, and tonight was one of those perfect nights. After a late dinner ala fridge and close to bedtime, we decided to take advantage of the weather and walk to the park.

We rolled up the hill with the dog in tow, who insisted on tugging relentlessly at the hunter green leash and barking at every squirrel within a quarter mile, and I saw her sitting on a weathered wooden bench across the park. When we sat down on the opposite bench, she yelled, “how old is your little girl? She’s pretty!”

Then I thought she said that she loved her hair, too, so I reached over, stroking her blond, bouncy locks, smiled and said, “thank you!” But she quickly responded, “no, yours!”

Oh, okay. That was sweet.

People at the park will smile on occasion, but they aren’t normally too friendly in the city, just as a general rule. They tend to keep to themselves, although I try to initiate some conversation when I’m feeling like getting out of the hermit shell inside my head. So I was a little surprised by this anomaly.

I sized her up from my seat, noting her seemingly clean purple and white-stripped cardigan and jeans.

Hmmm… She looks about my size, I thought, and for a second, I reverted back to middle school and considered befriending her in an effort to swap clothing. Sharing wardrobes was a trademark BFF thing back in the day. Then I quickly remembered the prevalence of bedbugs and fleas and other pests in the city, so, coupled with the obvious creepiness on my part, I scratched that idea. She proceeded to have a cigarette, which further reaffirmed my decision.

Her two girls were chattering excitedly about the dog and how cute he was and how they wanted to pet him, and I hesitated for a moment, because sometimes he can be quite boisterous and scary, his bark being much bigger then his bite. He hasn’t, in fact, ever bitten anyone, but still, I was nervous. As they inched closer, he relaxed his ears and seemed to welcome them, so I gave them permission. They loved on him enthusiastically, despite his frequent kisses and horrid breath.

My son was playing with a tennis ball on the slide, rolling it down with the inherent problem of having climb down and retrieve it each time, but she picked up the ball, which practically rolled right to her, and tossed it back up. They played like that for a little as I watched, debating whether I should get up and take her place like a “good mom” or allow them to continue.

Her girls tired of the playground and wanted to swing, and though they were plenty old to push themselves, she readily got up and went to push them. They were laughing, legs intertwined and facing sideways into a banana split, and she pushed them back and forth as they squealed.

I didn’t suspect anything yet.

My kids wanted to swing now, too, of course, so I situated them in the bucket swings and gave them a push alongside the other mom. And that’s when I first caught a whiff of it drifting by on the wind. The smell of urine. I didn’t immediately connect it to them, but then I noticed it each time they were near.

As she swayed back and forth with each shove of the swing, she asked if we lived close by. She lived in walking distance, too. She talked about summer and the start of school, which is all in the realm of normal mommy conversation, but I began to notice a strangeness in her movements. A kind of jerky, twitchy, awkward thing. It was mirrored by her seemingly compulsive style of speech and lax personal boundaries.

And then I realized, although it was a cool evening in July, she was in a long-sleeved sweater, jeans, and shoes instead of sandals. Everyone else was comfortably dressed in summer attire from head to toe. It’s the addicts, thin or even emaciated from the poison coursing through their veins—the very thing that is psychologically necessary to sustain them is, in fact, stealing their very life out from under them—who dress for an imaginary winter nobody can feel but them.

As her girls grew bored, she hopped up off the bench and suggested a game of follow the leader, and the girls filed in line behind her. They invited my kids to play, too, but the only response they received was a few blank stares.

She started marching across the playground, climbing over the stairs and ducking under the slides before weaving through the swings and finishing off her turn by going round and round and round the few pine trees in the park before rescinding her role.

“You’re a better mom then I!” I relented to her as I sat on my bench and observed, feeling pregnant as could be after the week of a heat wave we experienced. But was she, I wondered?

On one hand I admired her willingness to jump right in and play with her kids. Playing isn’t really my thing, but I did my time thrusting the rubber bucket, while tiny feet dangled effortlessly in the evening breeze, and I tossed the tennis ball up the slide to my son more times then I really cared to. On the other hand, I wondered what the inside of one’s house must be like if everyone who lives there walks out the front door smelling like a middle school boys bathroom.

With kids there is an awesome type of filth that comes from a day spent outside under nothing but the blue sky in the summer. Knees grass-stained, fingernails grubby, little feet with a ring of dirt around the bottom, and head full of sand. I always wonder, when we go out in the evenings after a day like this, if the people we come in contact with will think my children are neglected. Frankly, I figure there’s no point in changing their filthy clothes until bath time, because it’s not just the clothes that are filthy. Maybe that’s just me.

But these poor girls… They were a different kind of filthy. The kind that doesn’t just have the spills and stains from today on pink shorts, but the grime from yesterday and the day before, too. Maybe even all week. The kind of dirty that has an accident in bed at night and doesn’t have a clean pair of clothes to change into. The kind of dirt and sweat on faces that has blended into what looks like a tan after probably days of not bathing.

When I was young and thought I was utterly invincible, I would ask people what drug they would do if they had to choose. I, of course, picked the riskiest one I could think of, which was heroin, despite my always-existent fear of needles. I know now that given the right cocktail of pain, loss, circumstance, anger and fear, people are capable of anything. In our soul of souls, I think we are all a lot worse then we would ever dare to imagine.

But even still, the pit of addiction is one that I don’t ever care to have to climb out of; so thus far, I haven’t been tempted to jump in. And heroin of all things—it leaves a trail of destruction and ruined lives in its wake. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’d never go there, because I think that type of ignorance is just foolish, and I’ll be the first one to admit that I enjoy me some wine. Sometimes a little too much. But that cross, that self-imposed thorn in my flesh, is not one I’d ever like to bear.

Yet, there she is in front of me. The product of those choices in the flesh. And I wonder how she does it—be a mom—day in and day out. Parenting is a bitch most of the time as it is, let alone with a layer of addiction on top. What you thought would be the icing on the cake, the sweet, melt-in-your-mouth escape from reality, ends up weighing you down, trapping you in the gooey muck that is now your mess of a life, and the once buttery richness has lost all its flavor. How do you survive there?

I guess part of me admires her for showing up. For swinging her kids with her twitching hands and awkward conversation, for ducking down and following them around the pine tree, again and again. For, when one daughter asked, after she had to be dizzy from all the spinning, “is this fun mom???”

And her saying enthusiastically, “Yes!”

November 2

November 1

26 weeks along now.